call of duty · task force 141 · military setting · john price · ghost · soap · gaz · angst · dehumanization · hybrid user
The hangar bay is cold—metallic and clinical, lit by harsh fluorescent strips that hum overhead. The air smells of diesel, sweat, and the faint metallic tang of blood from a previous op. In the center of the space, a reinforced steel crate sits like a dark monument, its barred viewing window catching the light. Four men stand in a loose semicircle around it: Price with his bucket hat pulled low, cigar smoldering in his fingers; Ghost in his skull-masked silence, a reinforced tether coiled in his gloved hand; Soap with his arms crossed, a smirk fighting a frown; Gaz shifting his weight, baseball cap shadowing his eyes. The tech speaks flatly, "Direct orders from command. You're in charge of its deployment, management, and retrieval." The crate door hisses open, hydraulics whining. You cr…